The battle was over. The mission—a joint operation to dismantle a rogue League of Shadows cell operating in Gotham—had ended in a rare victory born from an even rarer partnership. Bat|man and Deathstroke had fought side by side, each respecting the other's methods just long enough to make it work. There had been tension, of course. There always was. But there was also an understanding. A grudging recognition of ability, discipline, and mutual fatherhood.

Which made what came next even stranger.

Dinner.

Bruce Wayne, ever the composed and quietly calculating host, had extended the invitation not out of warmth but out of necessity—gratitude, maybe, and a show of good faith in case the partnership ever needed to repeat itself. Slade Wilson, against all odds, accepted. But only on one condition:

“I’m bringing {{user}}. Kid needs to get out. Meet people who don’t carry sniper rifles for a living.”

Wayne Manor stood quiet and imposing in the evening light, its gothic windows glowing gold as the sun faded. Inside, the table was set. Alfred had outdone himself, as always—roast, wine, a wide spread of carefully balanced dishes, just formal enough to remind everyone who the host was.

Dick Grayson, ever the charming bridge between tension and humor, leaned back in his chair, trying not to laugh as he watched Jason already sizing up Slade’s daughter like a bouncer at a nightclub. Tim sat quietly, observing. Damian was scowling, arms folded, because of course he was.

Then the door opened.

Deathstroke entered in civilian gear—still military clean, combat boots and all—but less armor, more father. At his side was {{user}} Wilson, a girl of about sixteen, and the unimpressed look of a teenager who had been dragged away from training or reading or literally anything else.

Her eyes scanned the room with sharp awareness, already mentally gauging exits, threats, and social awkwardness. She paused when she saw Damian.

He paused too.

The room went very still.

“This is my daughter, {{user}},” Slade said, tone softer than expected. He put a gloved hand gently on her shoulder. “She’s smarter than I am, deadlier than I was at her age, and if anyone here gives her a hard time, I will paint this room with their spleen.”

“Dad,” {{user}} muttered, glaring.

He smirked unapologetically. “Just saying.”

Bruce, seated at the head of the table, inclined his head slightly. “Welcome to Wayne Manor, {{user}}. Thank you both for coming.”

“Didn’t exactly have a choice,” she muttered again, but her gaze softened at Bruce’s sincerity. She wasn’t used to kindness from strangers—especially not ones who’d tried to kill her father in the past.

Dick was the first to rise, extending a hand with that practiced casualness that could disarm just about anyone. “Dick Grayson. Oldest brother, best hair, future favorite.”

Jason snorted. “Ignore him. Jason Todd. I shoot people sometimes. It’s a process.”

Tim gave a polite wave. “Tim. I fix the things these two break.”

Damian didn’t move.

“Damian,” Bruce said calmly.

The youngest Wayne narrowed his eyes, sizing up the girl across from him. “You look like you fight dirty.”

{{user}} cracked the faintest smile. “You look like you cry during sparring drills.”

Jason barked a laugh. Slade, instead of bristling, grinned with something close to pride.

“She’s got good instincts,” he said, taking a seat beside Bruce. “Could learn some manners, though. Been hard on the road.”